


Four times Garak     and Bashir don't hook up and one time they do

by Savorybreakfasts



Series: G&B—possible beginning [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst and Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 20:14:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11767518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savorybreakfasts/pseuds/Savorybreakfasts





	1. Chapter 1

“What I felt when I saw you. You were standing there with Worf, and it was real that you had heard the signal and come.”

They had both been examined and treated for the physical injuries received in the Dominion prison camp and were walking to the habitat ring.

“Oh, Tain knew I would come for him. I never could help myself as far as my father was concerned.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Garak.” Julian touched his arm softly.

“Sentiment is a weakness, doctor.”

They reached Garak’s quarters first. “Well, my dear, here we are. I don't think I've ever been so pleased to see this door. Lunch on Wednesday?”

Julian returned his hand to Garak’s arm, but this time gripped his fingers above his elbow.

“Garak…I need you to know. What I felt when I saw you. It wasn't about escape, not only. Let me come in with you.”

“My dear. If you have something to tell me, it can keep until you are rested and fed. I'm afraid anything you could say now would be merely the result of the hardships of the past three weeks, which we would do well to put behind us.”

Julian tried to interject but Garak removed his hand smoothly with a tut and an inclination of his head. “I will see you on Wednesday, doctor. Now we must really both rest.”

As soon as the door closed behind him Garak let himself shudder and close his eyes. This was not real. He could not let himself believe that the doctor, that Julian, was sincere. In two days he would have found a dabo girl and Garak could go back to satisfying himself with glimpses over tea at the replimat, and with whatever his traitorous mind produced in those moments before sleep, as he tried to feel warm.

.............................................................................................

“I know you've heard. You hear everything that happens on this station---oh, I know, simple tailor, people talk in your shop is all.”

“Why are you here, doctor?” The words came out colder than intended. All the times he dreamt of Julian at his door, and now on two occasions, and so close together. But he was acting strangely, pacing and tugging at his hair.

“You know why! Will you put me off again? Or is it that now you know I'm a freak you don't want me? The first day you met me you couldn't keep your hands off my shoulders, but I suppose you saw a naive young man. You're not the only one who can keep a secret, Garak!” 

In the silence that followed this outburst, the strange energy radiating from Bashir’s body dissipated, and he looked older, and more tired, than Garak had ever seen. He slumped down in a chair and put his head in his hands. 

“They'll remove me from Star Fleet, you know.”

He sat for a moment more, than reached for Garak’s hands and clasped them desperately. “I suppose you know how that feels.” 

He pulled Garak's hands to his own face, whispered, “please.”

“My dear. At this moment you are not in your right mind. What you think you want tonight….You don't know what will happen tomorrow. You don't know how this might work out for you.” (You don't want to throw yourself away on an old, embittered exile.)

Julian stood abruptly and pulled away. “You, of all people, are going to lecture me on optimism? Please, Garak, at least find a more believable tactic to push me off.” 

He headed for the door.

“Doctor…”

“I thought you would understand. I thought you could spare me from being alone tonight. I see I was wrong.”

The door hissed as it slid shut behind him, leaving Garak blinking, unsure what to make of the sudden stinging in his eyes.  
...............................................................................................

“Garak, you wanker, open the door! I know you're in there!”

It was late, the hours designated as night on the space station, and when the door chime sounded Garak had opted to remain in his chair, with his kanar. It could only have been the doctor, and silence was perhaps kinder to them both.

Silence was not to be; Bashir was banging, and shouting, and laughing? Garak opened the doors, looked down the corridor for anyone who might be witnessing this scene, and quickly pulled the doctor inside. Bashir stumbled and fell against him, clutching the silk of his pajamas.

“Miles and I have been drinking!” He proclaimed with delight, as if it weren't obvious.

“He opened his best bottle! I know you've heard! You hear everything on this station. Yes, yes, tailor, people talk…”

And Garak had, indeed, heard. He'd even allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy of Tain having made a similar choice, but the absurdity was too much for his imagination. Garak’s exile continued, but Bashir was saved, and he felt relief as much as envy. Imagining Bashir gone had created a sense of double exile. The station had felt colder than it had in years.

He was pulled from his revery by Bashir’s clumsy pawing of his pajama buttons. Garak could smell the whiskey on him.

“My dear doctor, you are quite intoxicated!”

“I know! Isn't it wonderful? My father didn't think to try to alter my response to alcohol! Fully human! In other ways too.” He looked through his eyelashes with what might have been a coy expression, but in this state was merely comical, then stumbled further into Garak's arms. Soon his ineffectual button pawing stopped as his hands stilled, his eyes closed, his mouth fell open, and his head rested heavy against Garak’s chest.

Garak half led, half carried him to the sofa, pulled a blanket up to his shoulders. He was reminded of the doctor doing the same for him in his panic.

“My dear, will we ever be like this and both in our right minds?”

When Garak woke, Bashir was gone, the blanket folded neatly and a message on a PADD on his coffee table. 

Thanks for the blanket. And the sofa. Lunch today? Meet at the replimat?

Garak readied himself and headed to his shop with a smile. Perhaps.

..............................................................................

“You know, in the Academy I was considered a bit of a gentlemen’s man as well.” Bashir glanced over as he said this, in between large bites of larish pie.

“And did you woo all of your conquests by appearing at their quarters intoxicated?”

Bashir flushed red. “You don't have to make fun, Garak. If you're not interested, just say so.”

“My dear doctor. Whatever gave you the idea that I'm lacking in interest in you?”

They held each other's eyes for a moment. Finally Julian laughed. “I'm being a bit of a prat, aren't I? Don't answer.” He took a breath. “Garak, would you like to have dinner with me? Tomorrow night. I’ll wear something nice.”

“My dear. I would be delighted. You can meet me at my quarters. You do know the way.”

And with that Garak turned the conversation to this week's literary selection, Julian's choice, a strange work of Terran poetry called Leaves of Grass.


	2. Chapter 2

“I had a lovely evening, Garak.” They stood again outside Garak's door.

Garak had to admit that Julian had impressed him. He'd been expecting satin leisure clothes in colors so deeply saturated they left an after-image when he looked away, horrendous table manners, and distractedness, until the inevitably clumsy first move. And to be quite honest, he would have embraced all of that, he would have thrilled to accept whatever Julian gave him.

Perhaps Julian had been determined to show him why he called himself a gentlemen’s man. Or perhaps he wanted to make up for his earlier impetuousness and drunkenness, or for storming out of Garak’s quarters. Or perhaps (and Garak only allowed himself to entertain this possibility fleetingly) he truly cared about Garak’s feelings and experiences, and the effort he put into their date was a promise.

“I suppose I should say goodnight, then.” Julian continued. “I hope--”

“My dear.” Julian waited for the next words, unsure of what to expect.

The evening had begun here hours ago. Julian had arrived holding a potted orchid he'd begged from Keiko (along with a promise not to tell Miles the intended recipient.) He wore a slate gray tunic that showed off his collarbones in a scandalous manner, made of a woven fabric that begged to be touched. He kissed Garak on the cheek in greeting, admired his placement of the orchid, and offered his arm as they strolled to Garak's favorite Bajoran restaurant.

They discussed Whitman. Garak, though initially horrified by the very concept of a song to oneself, argued that there was something almost Cardassian in his views of brotherhood, and his connection to Earth’s nature stirred Garak's never entirely dormant longing for his home-world. Bashir took a more social-historic approach, delighting in telling Garak about the context of the work, and of Whitman’s love for men. 

As they ended the meal, Bashir asked if he would like to continue the evening in a coffee-house. He had booked a holosuite, and brought along a program his friend Felix had given him after seeing Bashir's fascination with mid-20th century Earth culture. 

“I thought if you enjoyed Whitman you might enjoy his descendants.” Bashir explained as they entered a smoky room. “This is from the same Earth era as my spy program, but I promise you it is not more of the same.”

They sat at a small table and took in the scene around them. On stage was a short, wiry human with a beard and glasses. He began to read:

“What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.”

Garak let the words wash over him and used the opportunity to gaze at Julian, at the earnest expression on his face as he listened intently.

“Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?”

After the reading ended they sat in companionable silence, listening to a nuanced instrumental music, until they were interrupted by Quark’s yelling, “Time’s up!”

And now they stood at Garak's door, the evening’s words and music echoing as he looked at Julian, beautiful Julian, and said, “My dear. Please do come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> The poem is Allen Ginsberg's "At a Supermarket in California."


End file.
